You've Got a Friend in Me
by dudeurfugly
Summary: After discovering a stray Dalmatian on the streets of Storybrooke, Archie Hopper had never intended on keeping it. But sometimes, friends are found in the most unexpected places.


**Disclaimer: I don't own anything, just having fun!**

**A/N: Enjoy! Let me know how you like it! **

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Rain pitter-pattered onto Archie Hopper's umbrella, droplets skidding off the vinyl and shimmering sliver as they dropped to the paved street. A bitter wind had picked up, prompting him to pull his overcoat in tighter. Thoughts of his nice warm apartment and the possibility of a steaming mug of tea danced across his thoughts; just a short walk and he would be home-free. Puddles splashed underneath his dress shoes even when he tried to avoid the larger ones—this rainy weather had plagued Storybrooke for the better half of the last two weeks and it was becoming downright miserable.

Archie took his normal route home, head bent slightly to keep the rain off his glasses if it happened to be swept up beneath the umbrella. He passed by a lengthy alleyway which housed a few dumpsters and did not think much of it until he was almost past the next building. Archie paused and listened, ears straining to catch what he thought he'd heard. Moments passed before the sound rose up again over the gusts of wind whistling through old windowpanes and rain splashing onto roofs and tin garbage cans. It was a low whine, a cry filled with something or mix of somethings—pain, sadness, and possibly hunger. It wasn't human.

Being a compassionate person whose job was to help others, Archie couldn't just let this sound go, especially if there was distress clearly evident in its tone. Turning on his heel, he backtracked and waited at the edge of the alley. Darkness had crept in, but the outline of the dumpsters were rimmed with gold from the streetlamps. Archie saw a flash of white peering out from one of them. He took a few steps in and half-grinned when he spotted a puppy gazing toward him with mournful brown eyes.

"Hey there, little fella," Archie said. He inched forward more and extended his hand to the puppy. The dog backed itself into a corner and cried, body shaking from the cold and stress.

Archie crouched down lower and kept his hand out. "How long have you been out here?" he wondered aloud. "You're in pretty rough shape."

His—well, Archie assumed for now that the puppy was male—coat was matted and dirty, more than a several shades off its brilliant white. Upon further inspection, he noticed black spots in the dog's fur.

"A Dalmatian," he smiled. "I wonder if anyone's looking for you. Must be—I don't see why someone would give you up, much less let you wander the streets."

Archie looked for a tag, a collar or any proof of someone owning the dog and found none. He furrowed his brow, trying to figure out how such a handsome-looking dog had been left to survive on his own without a companion. It appeared as though the poor thing hadn't had a square meal in awhile; Archie saw the faint outlines of his ribs through the bedraggled coat. If no one had claimed the dog, Archie didn't have the heart to leave him here, not in this weather.

He would take him home for the night and bring him to the animal shelter first thing tomorrow morning before work.

Archie whistled. "Come here, boy," he called. "I won't hurt you, I promise."

He held out his hand, palm up. The puppy didn't budge. His sad eyes sparkled in the street lights.

"You must be starving," Archie continued, as if the animal could understand his words, "Let's go home and I'll get you something to eat." As an afterthought, Archie added, "And maybe a bath."

The puppy lowered onto the grimy pavement, chin tucked between his front paws. Archie tilted his head to the side, feeling awful for him, helpless and scared—but he couldn't do anything if the dog didn't trust him.

The psychiatrist pulled himself up to a standing position. "All right," he proclaimed. "Can't say I didn't try."

He started to walk away, out of the alley and down the street. The rain had slowed enough for it to not be so bothersome, encouraging him to close up his umbrella and carry it alongside him instead. The tip of the umbrella created a steady rhythm as it collided with the sidewalk in perfect time with his steps. Soon, Archie noticed, another sound joined it; a noise strangely similar to the clicking of nails against cement. Archie's mouth upturned in a smile. He waited for a small whine to escape the dog's mouth, a soft call for attention, before pivoting on his heel.

With his head inclined toward Archie, the dog stopped short. His tail wagged behind him, the rest of his body still trembling. Archie extended his hand again and the dog trotted forward, wet nose brushing along his skin. A small pink tongue darted out and licked the tips of Archie's fingers in appreciation.

"Nice to meet you, too," he said.

The dog followed him all the way home.

The second Archie unlocked the door, he had to stop the puppy from racing onto any of the furniture and making himself comfortable. He cringed at the sight of muddy paw prints across the carpet leading into the tiled floor in the kitchen. He pulled a bowl from the cupboard and filled it with cool water; the dog seized it before he had the chance to place it onto the floor, spilling some of the contents all over Archie's sweater and socks. He shook his head and watched the dog lapping up the water like it was the last he would ever receive—he could swear there was a grin on the puppy's face.

"Pace yourself, buddy," he laughed. "There's more where that came from."

Once the bowl had been drained, Archie called the dog to follow him into the bathroom. He was surprised when the dog responded, appearing a bit more chipper with his tail still wagging. Archie closed the door behind them and tugged down some towels from the cabinet. He peeled off his already damp sweater and socks and tossed them into the clothes hamper. Next, he removed his tie and rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt to the elbows and knelt down to run the faucet to the bathtub.

After spreading some of the towels onto the floor and procuring a fresh bar of soap from the cupboard under the sink, the tub had filled enough for the puppy to stand in it comfortably. Kneeling by the tub's side with one hand wading through the lukewarm water, Archie turned his attention back to the dog. He was sitting much like he had been in the alley, chin on the floor.

"In," Archie told him.

The dog didn't respond. He gave a low, tiny growl instead.

"Is that the thanks I get?" Archie asked.

It took him five minutes to get the stubborn puppy into the bathtub.

The spotted dog had made himself dead weight, and Archie had to all but pry him from the tiled floor and place him into the tepid water. Which had, unsurprisingly, involved a lot of claws against the porcelain and a fair amount of water dousing Archie's clothes. More splashing followed while the psychiatrist scrubbed the small animal with soap, working through the matted fur and restoring its original brightness.

Twenty minutes later, the dog was mostly dry, and Archie was leading him out of the bathroom. He took off running and hopped onto the couch, curling up in an instant on top of the cushions. Archie frowned at the damp spots he was leaving on the fabric—he still had muddy paw prints to scrub off his floors.

"Well, you're making yourself right at home," he said. "Let's get something straight, though. It's only temporary."

The dog barked at him.

Archie lifted an eyebrow. "You want to stay?"

And damned if the dog didn't bark again in response, as if he'd understood what Archie was saying to him.

"You're certainly an intelligent little thing," he mused. "But I can't keep you. I'm sorry."

The puppy jumped off the couch and approached him, sitting at his feet with those sorrowful brown eyes. Archie shook his head and turned away into the kitchen. His newfound friend trailed obediently in his wake, every step matching with the clatter of nails across the floors. The psychiatrist wondered if this was what mother ducks felt like when their ducklings trailed them in a row.

"Let's find you something to eat, huh?" Archie was not equip to deal with a near-starving dog, but there had to be something within the depths of his fridge that would be safe and edible for a puppy.

It was just his luck to discover a leftover plate of meatloaf in between a bowl of half-eaten spaghetti and some fresh produce. Archie fished it out of the fridge and peeled off the plastic cling wrap. He set the plate off to the side on the floor and watched with amusement as the puppy attacked it. He greedily chomped down into the beef, licking the plate for the last vestiges of seasoning and gravy. Animal instincts in overdrive, the puppy devoured the plate of food with ravenous hunger until it was squeaky clean.

Archie didn't want to push it and give him anything more, for fear of the puppy getting sick from inadequate nutrition and access to food for who knew how long. Instead, he gave the speckled dog a playful scratch behind the ears and swept the plate into the sink.

Again, the puppy leaped across the apartment and took up his perch on the couch like he was waiting for Archie to join him. And the psychiatrist had to admit somewhere in the back of his mind that the sight of a half-sleeping puppy in his living room made the place feel more comfortable, more like home.

He supposed if he thought about it—_really_ thought about it—he and this stray were more or less very similar. Companionless and a bit lonely, looking for another kind soul to share a small amount of space with and fill up the hours with something other than sheer boredom and solitude. Archie figured he could get used to having a faithful animal friend at his side, that is if said companion promised not to track mud everywhere and tried to cooperate during bath time.

Archie sighed in defeat. He crossed the apartment, sunk into the couch beside the dog—_his_ dog, his mind corrected for a split second—and ran his fingers over the animal's newly cleaned fur. His tail swished back and forth with a degree of triumph, and he settled his head happily in Archie's lap, one paw dangling over the cushion's edge.

Archie laughed. "All right, you win," he told the Dalmatian.

His hands massaged into the fur, mussing it, fingers gliding upwards to scratch underneath the dog's chin and behind his ears. The puppy's eyes began to flutter closed, all expressions of sorrow gone and replaced with pure, delightful content. Tomorrow, on his lunch break, Archie would make a point to register his new pet and get him a set of identification tags. And a nice collar with a leash, perhaps green. He supposed he would just have to go shopping altogether; there was a list growing in his mind the more the idea of owning the stray settled into his thoughts.

But first, before the worrying over which brand of dog food was best and where the puppy would stay while he went to work, Archie had one very important detail to sort out for his new companion.

He looked over at his half-asleep puppy with a grin. "How do you feel about the name Pongo?"

Pongo licked Archie's hand in agreement, and the two of them remained on the couch listening to the soft rainfall outside the window until Archie drifted off into sleep with his new friend at his side.


End file.
